Amy

Apologies Amy G, we hi-jacked your cause to bring our rusty collection into the light for the first time, and on reflection I'm feeling a bit guilty about it.  Getting so caught up in the ABSOLUTE glee of hounding past the carbon masses on a bike made eighty years ago meant that I didn't for a moment think about why we were actually out on the ride.

A month ago on the 23rd of Feb, the first Amy Gillet Foundation ride was held in Hobart under a gorgeous blue sky, in perfect cool still air, and along familiar back roads in and around and about Richmond.  I'm rather hoping that Amy and her family would have enjoyed the sight of us cutting along in formation, but I rather think that we kind of missed the point.  We were supposed to be out championing road awareness and safety, not letting the brakes go at the top of Grasstree Hill, forgetting that we were relying on aged steel pipes and crude ( at best ) brakes to keep us right side up ( not to mention Craig's 40 year old Dunlop Olympic Torch rear tyre... )

For those who don't know the name, Amy Gillet was a young and talented Australian cyclist killed in a road accident while training with team mates in Germany.  The perspective-driving point of this is that Amy and her mates weren't doing anything alarming, just riding down a straight piece of country road...

Of course, we weren't alone in our flush of summer abandonment.   Everyone else was enjoying the day, and the road, and the company, and the free show bag every bit as much as we were - forgetting to keep to the left a bit and generally hogging the road three abreast all over the place.  The police officers amiably closing the first few kilometers of road must have been shaking their heads at the rabble.  ( Yes I do know that cyclists in Tasmania are remarkably lucky and have equal rights as road users, and can legally ride two abreast - that's not really the point, is it ? )

We did get to ride over the Tasman bridge.  With a lane closed to traffic and few Sunday morning motorists, this unusual experience set the tone for the day.  The closed road group start was so cool in fact, that I must admit to a first rush of blood, passing the first third of the field ( from the very, very back ) on the way to the crest of the bridge, then letting the bike off the leash and plumeting down the incline from the centre point summit.  I couldn't help it I swear, it was a first release of emotion from two weeks of late night bike prep, coupled with complete elation that we had made the ten mile ride from home to the start without incident, and in fact, the bikes seemed to feel pretty good to ride.

More admissions.  We had only ridden the bikes, in draft form, the morning before after a frantic effort to get all three rollng in time.  We'd never used a Sturmey Archer 3-speed hub in practice - actually out on the road - nor did we have much idea of the critical stopping power of a pair of philco brake calipers.  Our optimistic logic was that if the flat ride to the start proved practical, and nothing fell off, then a flatish 100 in the Coal River Valley would be fine.

I had actually sweated over this a little in the days previous.  Evening shed sessions started with setting up each frame and fork so that they would prove dependable, solid and without any wobble or slop.  Fishing amongst my collection of bits garnered bearing races, balls and locking rings that worked together.  Same logic to the bottom bracket.  Free of play and solid, combinations were matched and adjusted carefully to ensure smooth and reliable running.  Wheels then came together - respoked in some cases, tensioned in others - again with the intention of providing a solid running base. 

The bikes are so basic in spec that there really isn't much else, just brake calipers and levers and then stem, bars, seatpost and pedals.  But that is forgetting about small items like the gear trigger shift and roller pulleys for the gear cable, and the small collets required to finish off the brake cables to the correct length , or trimming the brake blocks to fit into the fixed housings...

But you see, there I go again getting all enthusiastic.

We've been lucky the last year and a bit.  Aside from a few yobs who either love the sound of their own voice ( yelling unintelligibly from their passing window ), or the manly toot of their V8 air horns, the worst experience we have had over 4000Km on the road was during our recent 400 brevet, 90 from home in the darkness on the Midlands Highway.   I was hit from behind by something  ( I think an empty beer can ) thrown from the window of a passing truck.  The projectile didn't do any damage - I'm just sorry not have caught the license number in the confusion and darkness.

It can that be that simple though - thoughtless and at times plain stupid behaviour can often have more serious consequences. 

I know its a bit late, but apologies again Amy, for momentarily forgetting you and others who have suffered the same unnecessary fate.  And thankyou to your family too, who have made it their mission to actively work through your foundation to ask all road users to actually think about what they are doing and consider the lives of others.

Bon Chance.

Changes

erm...sorry.   As usual, I have skipped the niceties and just lept straight in without any sort of acknowledgement or explanation of the recent web page re-shuffle.  Maybe I'm just a bit excited to practice my new ( and severely limited ) blog site creating skills...


If you have come to here via the web site you might have noticed the change.  If not, maybe click on the link to Home Base and let me know if it works ok.


The 'About 750M' page - linked on the right just over there - says it.  We want to add a live feel alongside the relativley static pages of the web site. 


On the web site you can read a bit about PBP and Oppy, and maybe feel inspired to research some more - and there is so much more.  There is a bit about us and some of the ideas that drive what we have done through 2010 and what we are planning to take on this year.  Most of this content will remain unchanged as an anchor point for reference.  Previous little ride blogs have been archived, but can be accessed via quick links at the bottom of the page on the web site.


What you have been reading here is about regularly trying to record our experiences, and ( although the guys don't realise it yet ) allow me an outlet to ramble around in my memory banks without giving away too much about my wasted youth. 


Possibly things will seem a bit earnest at times - that's just the way it is.

 Most importantly, you will be able follow us in the lead up to embarking for France as we take on a series of ride challenges and fiddle about with three bikes that are 70-80 years old.  We are planning a series of monthly event rides that give a little nod to Oppy's exploits in Tasmania during the Twenties and Thirties, allow us to attempt some fund raising activities, and hopefully build on our hard won fitness in preparation for the main event.  Maybe you'll feel a bit inspired to join in and we'd be glad to have you along.

More will be revealed early March - We are plotting a bit of a mail out so you-all will be the first to know.

750M

Zen and the Art of Randonneuring - Part 2

This is Gav - Man Motorcycle - Rouler Deluxe.

 

Perched inside a ( rather incongruous ) mountainside Budist shrine on the lower slopes of Mt Wellington ( Tasmania ! ? ) there is a sereness in his face that I feel compelled to share. 

I took this image with my 'phone as we began the first leg of our planned 200Km PBP Super Randonneur ( so very French ) qualifier in December last year.   It was the inspiration and starting point for the last post, but somehow I got a little side-tracked from the original thought and managed to go somewhere else entirely - something I am hoping to do regularly by undertaking to work up content for this site.   It is the rough and ready back roads of my mind that I am looking to enjoy exploring, as much as the riding, that motivates me.


What I am most proud of in the image above is that I have fluked the capture of Gav's inner soul.  Posing for me with ease of mind on his mind, my camera has managed to catch the faintest curve of humour at the corners of his mouth and eyes.  This is the true Man.  A joke, a laugh, enjoyment of life is never far away.  Gav is a pretty emotional sort of being - entirely a glass is half full sort of person, and always great company.

What you don't see in the imagery is just how strong he naturally is.  He is rolling a 46x18 single speed in the ( Brooks  Professional ) saddle on a 7Km, 6% grade.  I don't think he's exactly smiling at this point nearing the summit, but I know he relished rounding up carbon frames by the dozen on a bike made some time in the 1930's.  This is actually a pretty rare shot - Steve was alongside our friendly Rouler ...


I, on the other hand, seem always to be tucked into Gav's slipstream as he powers on over the nearest hill or into the wind ( the wind being his favourite and seemingly ever-present companion on the road ). 

This is the view permanently etched into memories of our rides, and I always seem to be asking him to ease up a bit just so that I can sit in.  Just a little bit of piano, piano.

We also always seem to naturally force Gav into starting off rolling turns.  He doesn't seem to mind.  His work ethic means he is happy to throw himself into the task at hand.  At the off, after lunch, or following a brief stop, I must admit that I really enjoy falling in behind Gav as he brings us up to speed and sets a pace for Craig and I to hold. 

We are going to have to do something about some extra text on the back of our jerseys.  With the length of ride beginning to ramp up, there is plenty of blank space for some fresh reading.

Thanks Gav. 

Zen and the Art of Randonneuring – Part 1

...More than a year into this project and I ( the skinny silhouette in the middle ) still don’t really think of myself as a 'randonneur' – funny how self-applied labels seem hardest to relinquish.  I’m not sure about the others but I have always thought of myself – inwardly and secretly liked to define myself - as a bike racer…which feels a little comical now that it is down on the page, as I haven’t really raced on the road ( that is, real massed start racing ) for more years than I’d like to think, and I wasn’t particularly good at it when I did.  I guess it’s ok to admit that out loud these days as there is little need to prove much - except maybe just to myself. 

Ok, with sheer pride at stake I have ripped my insides raw at the odd multisport time trial or mountain bike event as part of a team...but I seem to have lost count of feeling the Autumn change.  A distinct moment at the end of each February - like a switch has been flicked to ‘cool weather’ and the morning air feels wetter and works its way noticeably past collars and into the toes of shoes - it signals the start of the racing season in the Southern Hemisphere, and each time I sense it I promise to myself that, this year, I am going to get fit enough to ride.  And then I never seem to really make the effort to get beyond a quick jaunt to work morning and night.

What exactly have we been doing then this past 18 months ?  Before I’d finished a few ( and I do think the other guys feel this too ) the thought of 200 in a day seemed pretty simple.  A bit of a case of take it easy, roll along, eat a few bars and surf a tailwind home.  Reality has proven both flattening and exhilarating at the same time.  Depending on the day, the terrain, and how you are feeling, 200 is a pretty long way, even if you are relatively fit.  But this is just a little bit of quiet bragging, and not really tackling the issue bubbling away in the back of my mind. 

Put simply, at what point will I / we be randonneurs ?  Will I then cease to be a racer ?  Do I really need to label what we are doing anyway ?

Since October 2009 we have been collecting regular miles in order to register an entry to Paris-Brest-Paris.  If you are reading this, chances are that you probably well know the requirements of the country quota and ACP qualifying series.   This is accumulation of miles plain and simple, to be completed within a cut-off time; but for us, always with a reasonable lunch stop and coffee along the way.  It has been a wonderful way to spend hours on the road with friends, encouraging, sheltering and testing each other.  I guess this sort of experience is embedded in the spirit of randonneuring - exploring back roads by bike in good company. 

And yet I still consistently find myself drawn to the stories from an earlier time when Paris-Brest-Paris – the oldest of cycling events and the inspiration for the TdF – was a competition. PBP = Ride 1200 Kilometres in the fastest time.  Hmmm…in the fastest time.

I had known about this oldest of events because of Oppy ( and an obsession with biker journals ) for many years, but didn’t learn until recently that the 1901 winner of PBP was also the first TdF winner in 1903.  These early exploits, including Tarront's inaugural win in 1891 and Maurice Garin’s ride, must have literally electrified the collective public imagination of France at the time; human motivation connecting vast regional differences in unexpectedly short times by virtue of mechanical ( or maybe biomechanical ) advantage.  

Obviously a man of great stamina, patience and focus, Garin handlebarred his way across the European continent revelling in the longest, hardest road events.   Putting aside the self-conscious facial hair, heavy metal tights and dainty winners sashes, there is absolutely no questioning the athletic and mental hardness of character required to push a single speed - at speed - over dirt ‘roads’ for days straight.  However, noting Maurice is ( mostly ) just a slightly transparent ploy to add a little historical graphic content.   But thinking about the conditions faced by riders of this first boom era, and the personal qualities required of them, really underlines a train of thought.  

And this is mostly the point - stamina, patience, and focus underpin both road racing and long distance riding. 

Each are needed in equal measure – perhaps it is just that the motivation in each situation is different.  I’m set on this track a little because of a recent post by Bill Strickland – quoting Jean Bobet.  I’m also interested in understanding some of my own motivations and their potential for defining outcomes.  Bill / Jean describe the sensation of cycling as La Volupte, explained as something along the lines of ; speed and ease, force and grace.  With that little gem down, I’ll come back to Jean ( and probably Bill as he writes so evocatively ) another time, as it is yet another very eloquent distraction to the argument that I am having internally. 


Stamina goes without saying – racing 80 or 150, or riding 400.  Patience is always required - impetuous behaviour always leads to a collapse with the finish line in sight.  Focus is more nebulous, but there is no doubt that sitting in a bunch of 50 riders requires committed thought processes.  However, commitment is also needed to complete the final 100 of 600 after 20 odd hours on the road and 2 hours sleep.

Working together out on the road we have found ourselves fairly evenly matched.  What seems to work for us on rides are a series of jambs to milestone stops, with a pause to refuel then continue.  Speed coupled with conservation is the order, and this has, at times, lead to a rather interesting leap-frog game with other riders more intent on maintaining an average speed all day with very few stops.  There are shades of Jock Boyer at RAAM in this thought process – again, a topic for another day.  

Given our previous interests and background, is it a matter of discovering that ;  ‘ racers race, a randonneur tours’ ? 

Where am I going with this ?  I’m not going to try to define an answer today.  My intention is to raise a whole bunch of emotion and then leave you hanging.   Rather, I’ll come back to this little pet project as the year unfolds.   There are many inter-related stories to be told - some I've hinted at, others we've not lived yet.  Perhaps after PBP I’ll decide where I sit in the middle of all this.  Or perhaps I'll just return to pre-season dreaming...

Bon Chance.



Stopping Power

Thankyou Steven for risking a crappy day to sift through tables of rusty bits and pieces to haul in a veritable treasure trove of parts for us – and to the Abbottsford Cycles Vintage Bike Swap Meet for coming up with the goods at just the right moment.  I completely expected that Steven would come up empty handed, scant reward for getting a wet backside on the ride to and from the city.  But no, eight callipers, including two intended for fork mounting, plus a lever, plus another AW hub !  Christmas has certainly come early.   

I was frankly pretty excited to open up an email on the ‘phone on Saturday afternoon, having spent the morning swinging Callum on local playground equipment.  I had completely forgotten that I had alerted Steven to the swap meet date with a sheepish request to try to locate the brake parts required to complete our bikes in road format.

‘Mission Accomplished’ his note said, and there, pictured on the concrete floor of his shed was proof positive of a motley collection of ‘Philco’ brake callipers.  A bit of cleaning up and lubrication, some cobbling together of springs and cable adjusters should see the two fronts and two rears brought back to useable condition.  This will see the Whatley frame and Malvern Star equipped for use with a freewheel.  I just hope that the brakes can be adjusted to work a little better than their reputation would suggest…

Forum threads can be a fantastic source of information and also opinion.   Without having ever ridden with this type of brake, I am curious to find out at first hand just what they are like.  They do have a very 20’s cable-stop-lever-arm-and-set-screw appearance - completely un-aerodynamic and overly mechanically complicated.  In other words, quite theatrical and fantastic.   Opinion on the threads seems to run along the lines of particularly poor-to-non-existent stopping power, or even more alarming, either off or definitely on in modulation.  Fiddling with the calliper that came with the Aero tends to confirm these proffered opinions, as the hinged lever-arms operated by the brake cable seem to have a compromised rate of actuation – little movement at the brake pad to start with, as the lever begins it arc, followed by what would appear to be a little more movement toward the centre-of-swing, before petering out to a locked position as the levers reach the end of their travel.  The trick may be to find the sweet spot in the lever arm stroke that allows the most pad movement – by balancing pad position and cable tension.  Luckily, both are adjustable with a long and fine cable adjusting thread and moveable brake shoe retainers.

I have to admit that most exciting was the discovery of Philco’s intended for fork mounting – via clamps attached to the main brake-arm pivot points.  I had no idea that these existed.  The Aero came with a single pivot side-pull that uses clamps strapped around each fork leg to hold the assembly in place at the correct height, mount the return springs and ( hopefully ) reduce flex in the thin steel plates.  Similarly the discovered Philco’s use a system of fork blade clamps which should also reduce the amount of calliper flex when compared to the single mounting bolt of a rear set.  Wishful thinking I know, but at least the possibility is there. 

This chance find and astute pick-up by Steven has resolved something of a dilemma.  Having turned attention to the solution for braking, I had noticed that none of the bikes have a drilled fork crown to accept the mounting bolt for a brake calliper.  In each case there is a threaded hole in the rear of the crown – presumably for mounting either a full or truncated mudguard with a set screw.  I had been considering the historical implication of needing to drill the fork crown to accept a brake calliper, or whether Craig and I could live with the reduced braking performance of just a single rear calliper.  Drilling the fork crown of a path racer or track bike just doesn’t feel right, particularly as the intention is to run them in either road or track configuration, and my brain had been tossing around some ideas that involved contorted plate steel to replicate the backing clamps as found on the Aero.

Given the dubious performance reputation of the Philco, this may all prove to be a moot point, but two pathetic brakes have to be a little better than just one.  In my case, for added excitement, and due to a lack of identical pieces for all three bikes, I will need to use a Westwood front rim.  As I am the lightest of the group, and I highly value Gav and Craig’s wellbeing ( don’t want to be totally responsible for killing them ) they will each be set up using a pair of Endrick rims for maximum braking surface potential, while I will use a hybrid according to spoke hole drilling with Westwood front and Endrick rear.

So, a few hours of cleaning and adjustment, followed by some careful shaping of Koolstop pad inserts should see some stopping power, and kilo’s worth of steel, attached to the bikes so that they can be run with a freewheel.  Thanks again Steven – much appreciated.

Old World Cycling Tip #17

Ok, so there wasn’t quite as much at stake as on the Gavia Pass in 1988…but this was the image that came to mind as the rain at Gordon turned to that tell-tale distinctive double helix curtain of soft white flakes of actual snow.  The weekend’s Channel Double was also the last calendar opportunity to add kilometres to our Audax quota count.

It may look bright and cheery at this particular moment in Huonville, but Saturday reminded me to share Spring Cycling Survival Tip #17. 

A stop for go-fuel-in-a-bottle and pretty-in-pink gloves came after a rather zombie-like stretch from Verona Sands to the Deep Bay climb in heavy rain.  Previously the conditions had turned from a crisp and sunny five degrees, to drizzly, then slushy rain, followed by a brief minute of actual snow ( only 50m above sea level ) before settling into icy, icy rain.  Laughing at first at the absurdity of doing the channel double in such conditions, and at actually seeing snow fall right down to sea level ( not a common occurrence even in Tas. ), soon turned into grimaces of concentrated determination.  Icy water was slowly seeping past the cuff of gloves and into the heels of cycling shoes.

By Verona Sands Craig couldn’t change gears, I was inwardly feeling a bit frightened at the thought of descending the Deep Bay hill because I couldn’t feel the hoods when standing to pedal, and Gav was quickly disappearing up the road – powering on in an attempt to keep the warmth going in his legs – not realising in the conditions that neither of us could hold his pace.  Luckily the squall eased, and we could start to squeeze the water systematically from gloves as the climb over deep bay began.  By the top, our exertions had warmed us through again, and finger tips announced their return to the living with a searing, burning sensation.  As we sat astride our bikes at the summit, alternately deep breathing and quietly swearing under our breaths, Spring Cycling Survival Tip #17 came to mind.

When 150 from home in pouring ice cold rain - when fingers are so numb you can’t actually feel the handlebars anymore – stop at the first opportunity and purchase an ordinary $1.99 pair of dish washing gloves and pull them on over the top of whatever gloves you may already be wearing.  Doesn’t matter if they are wet already, eventually fingers will warm up and stay warm.

 

As far as survival tips go, #17 really is only useful as long as you are not miles from anywhere – which we were.  Just like a plastic garbage bag over core ( Tip #16 ) and freezer bags over feet inside cycling shoes ( #18 ) survival depends on either forethought or proximity to civilisation.  Obviously, the week’s forecast had not triggered preparedness in my mind, and Craig and Gav were yet to be introduced to this archaic fashion tip from yesteryear.

 Luckily for us, Cygnet was only 20 away and the clouds had mercifully parted to let through a few meek but warming rays.  I shivered so hard on the descent that it was a bit hard to ride in a straight line, however we made it down on slick roads, and rolled into town with minds clamped firmly on a warming coffee and sugary sweet pastry from the Lotus Eaters Café.

Worlds Away

Sun hat, bag full of food and drink, deck chair and a shaded spot on the hill by the Skoda sign…settled into our claimed territory for the day of the elite men’s race, from this vantage we could see across to the descent and down toward the bailey bridge obscured by tree canopy below.   With straight line clear views of the riders climbing this sharp little 900m pinch our position offered plenty of opportunities to site the stars and aim binocular or camera lens – at least until the UCI photographer perched himself in the fork of the shade tree right in front of us...luckily this was a bit uncomfortable for him and he pulled stumps to find someone else to stand in front of.

We arrived early on the Sunday morning, boy in pram and all, just after the elite men had made their start from Melbourne city at ten.  A four Km walk from the closest parking spot we could find hiked us across the leafy suburb of Newtown, through a posh coffee strip for a morning fix to go, then gradually up to the top of the second, and in our view decisive, climb.

We were welcomed onto the hill by a local, Laurie, with warm handshakes and banter.  Though not really a follower of cycle racing, he was genuinely excited at the prospect of watching the world’s best in his ‘backyard’.  While we set up our chairs he bustled about preparing picnic table, BBQ and rugs for the day’s entertainment, and chatting excitedly to all-comers.  Most exciting was the dropped hint that Cadel’s wife Chiara was apparent fine friends with the family camped in a roped off section nearby.  They were expecting a visit during the day from the queen of the world champion, and we rubbed our hands at a prospect that turned out not to be.

We then settled in for the wait.  Broken at intervals with the nursing of an over-tired boy who refused to drift off to sleep, the floor show unfolding before us included free cow bells handed from a passing van, the erection of the inflatable Skoda arch ( quite a debacle and it never did manage to stand up quite straight ) and the steady stream of spectators walking, with and without their bikes, up and down the hill.  Favourites were the pseudo devil with obligatory plastic trident and can of Victoria Bitter in hand, perched on the grassy bank in red spandex and fluffy fake gnome beard, and the trio of young bucks dressed as mock nurses in bright red costume - looking increasingly self conscious and bikini-tan lined on their hairy chests – nice man-boobs guys.

At last the buzz of helicopters.  They had reached the outskirts of Geelong town proper.  The helicopters proved a handy aspect of the event.  It was possible to maintain an understanding of where the riders were on the course at all times from the position of the three television choppers.  More waiting – then finally, the lead break of four broached the hill to a rousing cheer and the flash of cameras.  The crowd rose as one to their feet, even though they would have been able to see perfectly if all had stayed seated, to add their call of encouragement.  Really buzzing now, the crowd remained standing, and waited, and waited, looked at each other, exchanged excited sightings and predictions and then waited some more.  Twenty minutes passed with increasing confusion.  A lap was expected to take about twenty-five minutes.   If the bunch didn’t arrive soon, the break would be getting a free ride home on the back of the main field.  

Again, at last, the electric rise in excitement.  Marked by two hovering choppers, the whole peloton could be seen on the descent approaching the Bailey bridge kink.  Then finally, shoulder to shoulder across the road, they sauntered up the climb looking very unflustered by the time gap, growing heat and deafening roar.  Simon Gerrans near the front, Albi tucked in there, Stuey on the far side with Cadel close to his back wheel.  Dodger and Matt Goss hanging about the back of the bunch, as if about to fetch instructions from the team car that was only one or two back in the line.

With the last straggler over the top, the crowd returned to their chairs, radios and even laptops to check the time gap.  Ten minutes later the break came through again, to another rousing cheer, raising many overheard conversations about a ruling if they made contact with the main field.  No need to have been concerned.  That was a close as the break ever got to catching on.  By the fifth lap twenty minutes had dwindled to just a few minutes and the attack was losing fire power.

All together again with three to go, the Belgians, Italians and French came to the fore, and each time Gerrans was there to cover the move, while Cadel scrambled over the top of the climb to remain in contact with the first fifteen as small gaps formed – his crouched and low style very recognisable from the hill.  Stuey was always there too, digging in over the top, more upright and braced with his arms and shoulders, obviously not as fluid on the steep pitch of the climb, but hanging nonetheless

A prospect for the gold, Gilbert attacked to a mighty cheer in the closing laps as the field continually split on the first climb, closed together at the bottom of the descent, then split again over the top of the second climb right in front of us.  Still some five or six thousands of metres from the finish line on a down hill run, any group would have to work extremely hard to stay away to the line.  As the riders finished the tenth lap, much of the crowd had dissipated, heading toward the big screen, located in the park at the base of the hill.  With the leaders past on the final lap, gaps appeared along the fence and we snuck down hoping to catch a glimpse of the trailing gruppetto.  Sure enough here they came, Stuey leading them up the climb, still going pretty quickly.  Then three riders back Fabian.  The man looks like a bear in the view finder of a camera, all flowing black hair and massive quads.  They swept past, so close I would have reached out to pat their backs only I’d have dropped the camera right in their spokes.  Not sure how they felt about all of us yelling directly into their ear, but it was fantastic to be able to voice some appreciation at close range.  The camera video footage is disappointing, jerky and dark, with the sun behind the rider’s faces, but also atmospheric and treasured.  Fabian looked into our faces as he came past – some acknowledgement for the calls of encouragement – probably wondering why we were cheering so loudly for something like 80th place.

That moment capped a fantastic weekend of up-close contact with the world’s best.  On the Saturday, strolling across the water front toward the expo, we came across the entire Spanish team assembled for promotional ‘photo’s before continuing on their morning course recon.  They seemed so affable and relaxed, happy to smile and goof for the cameras, then pose and sign autographs for the small group of people who actually noticed they were there. 

This was followed up with the perfect vantage point just 50m from the finish line for the women’s race.  The whole field was marshalled right in front of us, team by team, and the Americans and Aussies smiled and waved very politely at calls from the crowd.  Hard to imagine being able to wander up to the barriers ten minutes before the start and see the world’s best so close.  At one point I watched with mild internal conflict as one American girl twiddled the rear derailleur cable adjuster of her compatriot’s bike in an attempt to get the gears working properly just minutes before the gun, not knowing whether to offer to help or not.  As I wondered whether I wanted to be responsible for stuffing up a contenders gear change or not, they got it sorted before I could find my voice, and off they went.

Not too much sun burn, plenty of fantastic racing and, pleasant up-close experiences reminded me so strongly of early live TdF experiences and of how glamorous seeming and exciting the sport is to see up close.  There is much more to tell another time.